


The Longest Four Days

by cactusnell



Series: The Almost Exile [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 18:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4273734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusnell/pseuds/cactusnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly deals with Sherlock's impending exile, with the help of Mycroft Holmes.  Sequel, or companion piece, to "The Longest Four Minutes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Longest Four Days

Dr. Molly Hooper was sitting, quite still, in the small kitchen of her small flat, staring at the now cold cup of coffee on the table in front of her and wondering why she still cared so very much. After all, it was not she who was to be bundled onto a plane bound for eastern Europe, never to return. And she had not even seen the man for over three months. But three minutes, three months, three years, or three decades, she knew she could never forget the color of his eyes, the curve of his lips, the angle of his cheekbones, or the casual cruelty of his disdain.

Molly had been in love with Sherlock Holmes from the first moment he had stepped into her lab, proving the theory, at least on her side of the matter, that opposites attract. He was tall, she was short. His eyes were the clear blue of a sunny Mediterranean day, hers were melting chocolate. She was kind, gentle, and caring, he was most definitely not. They were both brilliant, he more so than she, but he wielded his intelligence almost as a weapon, while she was far more subtle in the display of her intellect. She had spent many an evening worrying about his safety while he attended to one of his more dangerous cases. And had spent two years wondering if he would ever come home, and knowing that he wasn’t coming home to her even if he did return. She had tried to move on, even becoming engaged during his absence, but had never succeeded, mostly because he would reappear with resolve-weakening regularity in her flat, her lab, and her life. But for the past three months or more, he had been among the missing. And his behavior before that time had not been exemplary.

John Watson, and his wife Mary, had pulled him out of a drug den and down to Bart’s for testing, which he had failed miserably. The Sherlock who sat defiantly in front of her months ago was not the man she knew. His clothing was unkempt, his personal hygiene at an all-time low. She had been overcome with anger at his behavior, demanding an apology after she had slapped him. Three times. But he had not apologized, instead smugly making a disparaging remark about her broken engagement. That had been their last conversation. A short time later Molly found out the the detective was dating the beautiful maid of honor he had chatted up at the Watson’s wedding, an event which turned out to be the end of her engagement and the beginning of his. But it hadn’t been the last time she had seen him. No, that was shortly thereafter, when he had been shot, and nearly killed. He has spent a number of days in an unconscious state. His mother had come to London to sit with him during the day, but Molly had insisted that she could handle the nights. She was a doctor, after all, and Mrs. Holmes, at her age, could not be expected to maintain a twenty-four hour vigil. Mycroft Holmes, her elder son, had expressed his gratitude, and bundled his mother off to bed. Sherlock had been unconscious, but had muttered any number of things, mostly pertaining to Mary Watson, for some reason. Molly did find it more than a bit curious that the man she loved had been shot in the office of his fiance’s boss, facing his assailant, and yet could not identify him, or her. The fact that his engagement turned out to be a ploy to gain entrance to that office did not set well with the lovely fiance in question, Janine, who immediately distanced herself from the man, selling obviously fabricated stories to the press. At least, Molly sincerely hoped they were fabricated. Supposedly, John and he had found a breakin in progress, and Sherlock had been shot while John attended to the wounded. Molly often wondered if Mary Watson, evidently one of Janine’s dearest friends, had been privy to the facts of the relationship from the beginning. And why was her name constantly on the lips of the wounded and delirious detective. She never got to find out, however, as Sherlock had regained consciousness during the day, on his mother’s watch, and she could not bring herself to intrude on his privacy, unless he asked to see her. He never did, despite the fact that Mycroft has informed her that he was well aware of her nightly vigils.

So, she hadn’t seen him, or heard a word from him, in three months. At first, her girlish hopes latched on to the fact that they were both now free of encumbrances. But he showed no desire to renew, or expand, their friendship. When she enquired of John about his caseload, looking for an explanation of his absence from her lab and morgue on business matters, he informed her, rather gruffly, in fact, that the detective was working on a single case to the exclusion of all others, and her help was neither needed, nor, it would seem, wanted. DI Lestrade found him to be equally incommunicado. That was when she called Mycroft Holmes.

Molly Hooper and Mycroft Holmes had grown close over the years of Sherlock’s faked death, bonding over the fact that they were the only two people in the consulting detective’s circle who shared the secret of his survival. They had tea together at least once a fortnight, and Molly found herself growing rather attached to the somber man with the well-hidden, but kindly, heart. Mycroft often sent messages concerning his brother’s whereabouts and condition, delivered with a personal touch by his PA Anthea, to whom Molly had also grown close. The two women would often spend an evening together bonding over red wine, and complaining affectionately about the Holmes men. But Anthea knew exactly where she stood with Mycroft, and that was at the center of his world. And now here it was, a year and a half after Sherlock’s return, and Anthea was still the center of Mycroft’s universe, while Molly didn’t even seem to quality as a distantly orbiting satellite of his younger brother.

Enough! Molly had decided that, since it was Christmas, there would be no harm in texting a brief holiday greeting. She knew that the brothers were spending the day at their parents’ cottage in the country. Mycroft, ever the gentleman, had invited her to come along, as he knew that, without family to speak of, she would be spending the day on her own. Anthea had traveled north to visit her mum, who was currently too ill to travel to her, as was her custom. But Molly had politely declined, knowing that she would feel uncomfortable in Sherlock’s presence after all this time. Mycroft had told her that John and Mary would also be there, and the fact that John still seemed to hold a grudge, even after all this time, about her lying to him regarding Sherlock’s survival, merely solidified her resolve to turn down the kind invitation. And, just like the name of that Cameron Diaz movie, there was something about Mary. Mary, the connection between Janine, and Sherlock, and Charles Augustus Magnussen, Janine’s employer. Mary, whose name Sherlock had muttered over and over again in his delirium. Mary, who had supplanted her so completely in the detective’s circle of friends and confidants. She was probably just jealous, Molly thought, as she picked up her mobile to send a holiday greeting to each of the Holmes brothers.

But Molly Hooper received no response. Not even from Mycroft. And that was not like him. He had always been unfailingly kind to her, and would surely not ignore a simple holiday greeting. His brother, of course, would not bother to respond. But Mycroft? Molly began to sense that something was wrong, and so, her uneasy vigil had started on Christmas Day, a day which already had both good and bad connotations in her mind. She remembered the day a few years before when the arrogant detective had gutted her with his seemingly off-hand observations about her attire, her social life, and the specially wrapped gift she had brought to the party he and John had thrown at Baker Street. But she had stood her ground, calling him on his behavior. It was the first time anyone could recall hearing Sherlock Holmes apologize. And the kiss on her cheek had been an added bonus. When Molly finally dozed off on this Christmas night it was not cheerful visions of sugar plums which danced in her head.

When Molly awakened the next morning it was to the news of the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen, newspaper magnate and wielder of power far beyond his station in life. She could not ignore the coincidences. Sherlock Holmes had assured her, on multiple occasions, that there were no such things as coincidences, as the universe was not so lazy. Sherlock and Mycroft were incommunicado, Sherlock had been shot in Magnussen’s office, and the magnate was now dead. Molly could not ignore the connection. She was about to call Mycroft when there was a knock on her door.

“Mycroft?” His name contained a question mark as Molly spoke.

“May I come in, Molly? I’m afraid I have some news.”

“It’s Sherlock, isn’t it?” She took a deep breath. “He’s involved in this Magnussen stuff, right?”

“I’m afraid so. This is the case on which he’s been working for all these months. I urged him not to get involved…”

“And we both know how that went over, I guess!”

Mycroft Holmes smiled sadly. “Yes, well…”

“Oh my god, he did it, didn’t he? He killed Magnussen!” Molly knew it as surely as she knew her own name, as surely as she knew her father had loved her, and as well as she knew she loved Sherlock Holmes, even after all this time.

“Yes, Molly.” Mycroft looked shaken. “In front of multiple witnesses, including myself. There can be no plea of self-defense. He put a gun to the man’s head, and pulled the trigger.”

“Oh god, oh god…” Molly had turned white, but still managed to stand straight.

“He can’t go to prison…” Mycroft said with a sad sigh.

“Of course not!”

“He would never survive. Too many men behind bars hold my brother responsible for their being there…”

“What can be done, Mycroft? What?”

“Sherlock has agreed to a compromise. Exile. He can prove himself useful cleaning up some problems in Eastern Europe…”.

“How long, Mycroft?”

Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to look the petite woman in the eye, but spoke as he studied his feet. “Six months, Molly. My superiors expect the mission to last six months.”

Molly may not be able to deduce things, or people, as well as Sherlock, and his brother, but her intuition was second to none. “He won’t be coming back, will he? He’ll die out there on this ‘mission’.” Mycroft’s nod was barely perceptible, nor was his muffled sob. Molly grabbed him by his upper arms, making him look her in the face. “Fix this, Mycroft! You must fix this!” And, having said that, she collapsed in sobs against his expertly tailored suit, begging for his promise. And the only thing that kept Mycroft from collapsing in the same manner was the thought that this small woman needed him, his mother and father needed him, and his little brother needed him. He left, determined to once again pull a rabbit out of his hat.

The rest of the day had been spent in seclusion in her flat, exchanging tests with Mycroft, and Anthea, who were keeping her updated on plans concerning Sherlock. She had hoped to hear from the man himself, but, of course, that did not happen. John Watson had answered her text, merely informing her that he could divulge no information on the matter. Molly drank two bottles of red wine that Boxing Day, and had to leave the flat to replenish her supply. Good lord, if she didn’t hear something soon, she was going to become an alcoholic! By the time midnight rolled around, she was slightly drunk, completely exhausted, and in a state of total despair.

The next morning dawned as gray and miserable as Molly Hooper’s mood. Mycroft was in touch early in the morning, asking is she would like to visit his brother before his exile was to begin, which was, unbelievably, the very next day. “He’s asked for me?”, she enquired hopefully.

“No, Molly. But I know you want to see him. And, most often I find, my brother does not know what is best for him…”

“No, thank you, Mycroft. I’m sure he’s got more important things on his mind than entertaining an lovesick pathologist. He’s got to make peace with whatever he’s done, and what’s about to happen. Are you working on it, Mycroft? Please tell me you haven’t given up!”

“No, Dr. Hooper, I’ve not given up. But don’t get your hopes up, please! I can’t talk about it now, I’ll be in touch.” His voice softened. “Are you alright, Molly? I’ll have Anthea come over this evening to keep you company. She quite busy at the moment with some, er, project, but if all goes according to plan, she should be free this evening…”

“I would appreciate the company, Mycroft. This flat had never seemed to be so oppressive, or depressing, before.”

“I’ll have her bring more wine, Molly. Try not to damage your liver too much!” Mycroft Holmes tried to make a joke, but his heart wasn’t in it.

The fourth day of Molly Hooper’s vigil, the day of exile, found the small woman lying in her bed with neither the stamina nor the inclination to change the situation. Where was he now? Was he preparing for his flight to oblivion? Or perhaps, he had already gone. Out of England and out of her life, but never, dammit, out of her heart, it would seem. But her life, however bleeker, must go on. She got out of her warm bed, took a couple of paracetamol, and headed for her shower, to prepare for her day at Bart’s. She had no desire to leave her flat. In fact, left to her own devices, she may very well stay there forever, surrounded by memories and an increasingly large clowder of cats. But she was expected at the hospital, and Molly Hooper was nothing if not dependable. And it was precisely because of this dedication that Molly was alone in the lab when the broadcast which shook the country came through.

“Did you miss me?”, the psychopath intoned teasingly from every video and audio device in the country, and Molly’s blood ran cold. She stood rooted to the spot until she received a text from Mycroft Holmes.

GUARDS ARE ON THE WAY TO ACCOMPANY YOU HOME. NEVER FEAR. YOU ARE SAFE. - MH

Within the half hour Molly was safely deposited in her flat, guard at the door, and on the street, and heaven only knows where else. The broadcast had lasted only a few moments, but had achieved its objective, instilling a state of unease bordering on panic on the population of the United Kingdom. Molly had been pacing from room to room, checking locks and glancing out windows, too nervous to stay in one position. She glanced out her front window to see a large black car pull up just outside her building, and ran to open her door in expectation.

“Mycroft…” But her heart damn near stopped when she saw his younger brother standing on her doorstep.

“Molly…”

The woman had not moved from the doorway, effectively blocking the entrance. She had barely remembered to take a breath, and when she finally inhaled, it seemed to release her inhibition against speech. “What are you doing here, Sherlock?”

“My brother told me you were waiting here for me, Molly. Was he mistaken?” The woman did not answer, either incapable or unwilling. “May I come in?”

As if awakened from a trance, Molly finally moved aside to allow him entrance. She supposed that this was his brother’s gift to her. A brief visit with the love of her life before he was of on some mission or other. Probably to catch Moriarty, and not to Eastern Europe after all. At least for the present.

“I can tell from your demeanor, Dr. Hooper, that my brother has not yet informed you of my new fate.”

“Not exile? Not Eastern Europe?”

“No, not now. It seems England needs me. At least for the moment.” His eyes took on a faraway look, as if contemplating something unpleasant. “I was on the plane, Molly. My life was falling away behind me. Longest four minutes of my life. And possibly the most informative…”

“But shouldn’t you be off somewhere, chasing that bastard?”

“I take it you are referring to Moriarty, and not my brother. For I have decided, Molly, that my brother is a bastard neither by birth or character definition. He told you he promised to fix it, and it seems he has! I suspect the lovely Anthea had something to do with it, also, as she is always privy to Mycroft’s doings…”

“So, no Moriarty?”

“No, oh god, no! I should have told you that immediately. No Moriarty. You’re safe, Molly. He will not be coming after you.” Seeing her shoulders visibly relax, the man was slightly guilty that he had not led with this information, and reached out to comfort her. But she flinched from his touch, and a look of pain clouded his features briefly. He regained himself quickly, however, and went on. “”I have been told to wait her for Anthea, who will then deliver us to Baker Street.”

“I’m not going to Baker Street, Sherlock. I’m staying right here!”

“Molly, I realize that you owe me nothing, except a swift kick in the arse, but if my brother’s plan is to work, it must appear to his superiors that James Moriarty once again threatens our shores. We all must appear to be taking the threat seriously. It they suspect that is a ruse of any sort…”

“I understand all that, Sherlock, but why must I go to Baker Street?”

“Because, if Moriarty had truly returned, all my friends, the people who are important to me, would be at risk, and must be protected. John and Mary are fully capable of protecting themselves.” Molly was a bit taken aback by the fact that he considered a heavily pregnant woman capable of defending herself, but that’s what he had said. Not that John was capable of defending himself and his wife, but that both were capable. Interesting. But then, there’s something about Mary, as she had thought before. Sherlock continued. “Lestrade is fine on his own. He is a copper, and he has a bodyguard. And Mrs. Hudson is already in residence. That leaves you, Molly…”

“Except for the fact that I am not so important to you, Sherlock. I haven’t seen you for months! You haven’t answered my texts…”

Sherlock looked completely shaken. He couldn’t believe the damage he had caused. He had just wanted to keep Molly away from the whole Magnussen affair, as there were secrets involved which he did not consider his to share. This was supposed to be the easy part, the joyful return, the start of the new life he had planned during his four minutes of unpleasant introspection on his aborted flight. Waltz into Molly’s flat, tell her he loved her, and make her happy. But Molly did not look at all happy. She may be relieved that he was not on his way to his death, but she hardly was overjoyed to find him once again complicating her life. He took a deep breath, and continued.

“Molly, you are important to me! The most important, as a matter of…”

“No, I’m not. I’m convenient. An asset. Well, Sherlock, you are no longer convenient for me, nor an asset…”

And as he looked at her, the woman he loved, he saw her slipping away, as surely as the ground had slipped away from the small jet bearing him away to his exile. And he knew he couldn’t let that happen. Secrets be damned! He had sacrificed enough, and he was not about to sacrifice his newly acknowledged love for the small woman standing defiantly in front of him with tears in her eyes so that John and Mary could live happily ever after while Molly remained broken hearted, ignorant of the depths of his feelings for her. And he knew she could keep a secret from past experience. So he told her everything. About the damaging information stored in Magnussen’s head. About the way he wielded that information to control, and destroy, people and lives. About how Mary Morstan’s former life as an assassin had made her vulnerable, which, as a consequence, made John Watson, and their unborn child, vulnerable. Even how Mary had put a rather strategic bullet in his liver in a misguided attempt to preserve her, and John’s happiness. If John was half the friend to him as he had been to John, he would understand. If he wasn’t, so be it. Sherlock Holmes’ priorities had changed, and Molly Hooper was now definitely at the top of the list. And Mary would be put on notice that no further bullets, delivered anywhere in his proximity, would be tolerated.

He was so absorbed in recounting the story, and declaring his affections, that he hadn’t even noticed the arrival of Anthea, who now stood in the still open doorway, listening intently, And she certainly couldn’t bring herself to interrupt as a tearful Molly Hooper threw herself into the detective’s arms, kissing him passionately. When they broke apart, Molly wiped her tears and said, fiercely, “No more secrets, Sherlock! Never!”

“Not from you, Molly. Never from you.” He pulled her close once again, and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Ready to go back to Baker Street now?”

“I should pack a bag, I suppose. How long will I be staying?”

“It should be safe to relax our guard as soon as the next crisis which requires my attention arises. It could happen tomorrow. Or next month. Or a year from now. Why don’t you just plan on staying indefinitely? Pack a small bag, and Mycroft can send some minions to bring the rest.”

“Fine,” the pathologist said as she rose from her seat to go to her bedroom to gather some things. 

But Sherlock stopped her for a moment. “Molly, I’m going to have to tell John that you know about Magnussen. And everything else. I don’t suppose he’ll be too happy, but he’ll deal with it. As will Mary…”

“John knows I can keep a secret, Sherlock. Even now he’s not any too happy that I hid the fact that you were alive from him for those two years you were gone. But he’ll probably still be angry. It’s more Mary that I worry about!” Molly spoke with a nervous laugh. She knew there was something about Mary.

“Not to worry. If something unfortunate befalls us, I’m sure Mycroft will handle things,” he said with a laugh. From the bedroom, where she was helping Molly pack, Anthea called out, “I’m a much better shot, Sherlock. And trained every bit as well as Mary Watson. I’ll deal with it!”

“You two are making me a bit more than nervous, you know!”

“Get used to it, Dr. Hooper. This is what happens when you associate with assassins, murderers, and government agents. Want to change your mind about coming home with me?” The detective spoke jokingly, but his eyes showed a trace of doubt.

“Not on your life, Sherlock,” Molly said, rising on her tiptoes to kiss him gently on the lips, I always imagined life with you would be exciting, but for entirely different reasons.”

“Well, for now, love, put on a serious, frightened face. We have to sell the Moriarty scenario to Mycroft’s superiors, or this could be a very short romantic interlude.” So Molly grabbed hold of his arm, and seemed to cower into him as they left the flat on the way to Anthea’s waiting car. Sherlock Holmes basked in her proximity, knowing that before the night was over, they would get even closer.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit my blog at HooperandHolmes.wordpress.com


End file.
